


another un-innocent, elegant fall

by rillrill



Category: Succession (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: Greg’s in the middle of his second glass of champagne, mingling at the edges of the dance floor, when he feels a hand curl around his bicep, fingers digging into the expensive wool of his suit coat.





	another un-innocent, elegant fall

**Author's Note:**

> A deleted scene, of sorts, from the season 1 finale.

Greg’s in the middle of his second glass of champagne, mingling at the edges of the dance floor, when he feels a hand curl around his bicep, fingers digging into the expensive wool of his suit coat. He doesn’t jump, which is a first. He finally feels like he’s getting the hang of this viper pit. He doesn’t jump, but then there’s a breath at the back of his neck, hot and wet, and Tom leans into his ear, and he jumps at that.

Tom laughs a little, a short mean laugh, and a hot familiar feeling shoots through Greg’s stomach, fear cut with humiliation and something a little more like excitement. “Little on edge there?” he asks, squeezing Greg’s arm a little tighter, and Greg forces a neutral look back onto his face. 

“Uh, no,” he says quietly, ducking and bobbing his head, trying somehow to kaleidoscope his form down to Tom’s height. Like a scared dog going belly-up, or something; at least that’s how it feels. “No, no, not at all. Why would I, um. Why would I be on edge?”  
  
Tom raises both eyebrows in a parody of concern. “Well, I don’t know, Greg,” he says, low and mocking. “I’m not your babysitter. Listen, have you seen Nate?”  
  
_Who the fuck is Nate?_ He furrows his brow and tries, tries to think, but he got a little stoned earlier and he’s still a little jet-lagged and he cannot for the life of him remember being introduced to anyone named Nate. He remembers a Nathan, maybe? One of the cater-waiters, or a plus-one, he doesn’t know anymore. He’s not sure how anyone pretends to keep all these strangers straight, and he’s becoming increasingly convinced that most people just don’t bother—most of them have bitches to do it. People like him. Fuck. He's still Tom's bitch. He _was_ supposed to know who Nate is.   
  
“Who?”  
  
Tom exhales from deep in the back of his mouth, letting the air out low and loud to express his disappointment. It sounds like a controlled demolition. Greg chews the inside of his cheek.  
  
“That Dollar General-BJ Novak-looking fuck,” Tom says shortly. “You might recognize him, he’s the guy who’s been following my wife around like a little lost puppy dog all night.”  
  
“Oh,” Greg says. “Um, right. That guy.” He glances around the floor. “Have you checked the coat room—”  
  
“They’re fucking,” Tom says, and it’s so blunt that Greg actually waits for a follow-up: _They’re fucking with me_ , or _They’re fucking up the whole plan_ , or something like that, but instead the two words just hang there, damp and ugly in the twinkle-lit festive air, and it takes him a moment before it clicks that—  
  
“Oh, shit,” Greg says quietly. Is he—allowed to say that? “I mean—I’m sorry, man—I didn’t—did you know before I, you know, or?”  
  
“I suspected,” Tom says. His hand is still resting, squeezing, tight like a vise on Greg’s upper arm, and Greg feels that sticky-hot heat at the pit of his stomach start to rise (like lava, or bile) up through his digestive system. “It’s fine. We’re both adults, Shiv and I, we’re adults and we know what we’re doing. I have a plan. So have you seen him, or?”  
  
“No,” says Greg after a moment, and Tom regards him with a pitiless glare, pitched somewhere between _You disgust me_ and _You’re in the clear_. He fights back the urge to say _I told you so_. He knows Tom has to be thinking it already, so there can't be any upshot to rubbing it in. “So what’s the, uh, plan?”  
  
Tom chuffs a mean little laugh. He doesn’t let go of Greg’s arm. “I’m thinking of shoving my cock down his throat,” he says matter-of-factly, and Greg’s breath catches in his throat, his whole body suddenly very alert, like Tom’s been speaking German the whole time and he suddenly caught a few words in English that lit up every neural pathway in his brain. _Cock, cock, cock, throat, shove my cock_. His mouth is dry. He swallows. His entire body is so fucking hot, the room must be overheated from all the bodies pressing together and all the lights. “Only question is, do I let her watch, or not?”  
  
He has to say something, so he says the first thing that comes to mind. “I mean, do you think she’d be into that?” Greg can’t believe what comes out of his own mouth sometimes. It does the trick, though; Tom tips back his head, laughs, flashing his pointy incisors, and finally lets go of his arm.  
  
“You’re all right,” Tom says. “You’re all right, Greg.”  
  
Greg sways a little as Tom unhands him, steadying himself with two knuckles on the nearest table. A little part of him pipes up its little voice, the part that says fuck it and makes him lose the ability to think rationally when he’s caught off-guard like this. Tom’s looking at him like he’s raw meat and he feels— _raw_.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” he hears himself say, and drains his champagne as Tom walks away. He thinks he wishes Tom had stayed. He thinks, he thinks he’d want to watch, maybe.  
  
These people are so fucked up.

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys I can't believe there's no fic for this show yet


End file.
